Chapter Three #2
“Merci.” I sat on the stool where Madame would be working later in the day, stringing beans or peeling potatoes or one of those other laborious kitchen chores.
The kitchen was dim and cozy with high walls made of grand-looking stone.
Being in there with Cook reminded me of life at the orphanage.
We had a big kitchen there too, and the nuns were wise, practical fixtures who fed us whenever we came around.
Cook had worked at 77 Rue de Fortuny since before Madame married into the Tremblay family.
She was a wide, plain woman with salt and pepper hair.
She prepared all of our meals, which were included with room and board.
Nothing fancy, but always delicious. “Any sign of our kitty this morning?”
“Not yet.” Once the coffee was going, Cook went to her lists.
She often said that her lists were part of her brain.
She kept a stack of papers in the same place on the counter.
Then when she left the kitchen, even for a quick errand, she rolled the papers up and tucked them in her apron pocket.
Now she smoothed out the curled edges and ran her finger down the paper.
I was going to talk more about the cat, one of our favorite topics, when the door opened and Charlotte walked in. Her dark hair was loose, and she looked as guilty as sin with a cheap sweater on over her evening gown. There was a price tag dangling from the back of her collar.
“Bonjour,” Charlotte cheered. She had shopping bags in her hand. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went out nearly an hour ago for a walk. I wanted to see the city wake up, I suppose. Plus, I needed to experience it for a story. Or, at least I thought it might help.”
All of these words that sweet, innocent Charlotte strung together added up to nonsense. I was awake too. I would have heard her. “Did you get a new sweater?”
“No. I’ve had it for some time.” She pulled a pastry box from her bag and put it on the table. Inside were ten golden, flaky pastries that smelled like browned butter. “I’ve brought croissants. Help yourselves.”
Maybe she’d had the sweater. But it held a freshness that sure looked new. Plus the price tag. Why would she lie?
“I’ll just go up now and see if I can get some work done.” Charlotte hitched up her skirts, took the steps two at a time, and was gone.
Cook raised her bushy gray eyebrows. “Seems she had fun at the fancy people’s ball last night.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t believe that she got up this morning, put on her party dress, and went out for a walk, do you? That girl didn’t leave an hour ago. She left last night.”
“Interesting.” I poured each of us a cup of coffee from the percolator.
“I’ll say. They’re always a little silly about the parties when they first arrive in the city.
And someone’s been sending her all those gifts and letters.
” Charlotte was new to the city. And I didn’t need to see her hometown back in the provinces to know how different—how provincial—it was in comparison.
Cook put a spoonful of sugar in her coffee and continued, “Now if she’s spending the night with him, it’s only a matter of time before she ends up like that last one. ”
“Fleur?”
“That’s the one. Those girls from up north have it the worst. A man gives them an expensive little something and they lose their heads.”
Charlotte had been in Paris for less than a month when a vicomte—one of the last real ones that went back to the early Bourbons—sent her a very expensive typewriter “in support of her work.” There was a letter from him in the post almost every day.
And Charlotte was no aristocrat; quite the opposite.
This didn’t seem to deter Charlotte, and I couldn’t blame her for that.
If a wealthy man were so interested in sending gifts in support of my work, I might have kept up the letters too.
But she seemed too naive to realize that she was practically in the lion’s den if she was on that man’s arm.
I sipped my coffee while Cook offered a series of familiar anecdotes on women who’d come to the pension respectable and fallen out as courtesans.
Madame and Cook took a practical stance on women climbing the social ladder through affairs with men.
Madame was strict about who she let move in.
This was a place for professional women of good reputation.
There were laws about prostitution and brothels.
With a house full of women, Madame’s place couldn’t be mistaken for that.
She was always going on about the women in the house next door, who seemed to always have male visitors.
Madame had an upstanding reputation to maintain.
No boyfriends or overnight guests. And men weren’t to be coming to the door or hanging about in any other way unless his intentions were on a respectable marriage.
Madame Tremblay didn't always know what went on in her house, but when she found out about it, she tended to take swift action. I had no trouble keeping these rules, though I’d seen many a housemate succumb.
Outside of the legal concerns about housing prostitutes, I suspected the house rules were also a reflection of Madame Tremblay’s moral stance.
But it was hard to tell with her. When she did talk about it, her concerns were always about our future and our ability to live independently.
She insisted that relying on a man could be precarious.
The concerning part was that the man supporting the woman could change his mind on a whim and have her on the street with nothing but the gifts he’d bestowed on her.
These women could be reduced to dire circumstances if he lost interest or found someone else.
Fleur, who I still kept in touch with, started with a nice apartment and all the dresses and earrings she could wear.
But the last time we spoke, she’d been selling all her jewelry because she had to part ways with her vieux protecteur.
I had recently learned how a livelihood could become vulnerable to the whims of others.
I didn’t look down on women who relied on men.
How could I when so many did it? There were worse ways to survive.
And it didn’t seem any more or less precarious than any other way of life.
Charlotte wouldn’t be stupid for tucking under the wing of the future vicomte Antoine de Larminet.
I didn’t care where Charlotte spent the night, at least not personally. Professionally, however, it was as if I’d struck gold.
“Potins Culturels” was the crowning jewel of our newspaper.
It was a gossip column that focused on the artistic and literary sets.
The byline on it was a vague H. De la Maison.
The H stood for homme, and so the column was signed by the man of the house.
But in reality, there was no man of the house.
There never had been. The column was a catch-all for all the juicy bits that the reporters picked up as they were working on other things.
The insider gossip that made all the literary men and art snobs and tastemakers feel like they knew the artists in real life.
Usually Paquin wrote it. Sometimes, one of the reporters had something big enough for a full write-up.
Other times it was a group effort to smooth smaller pieces into something to get the salons and drawing rooms talking.
Even people from other departments sometimes threw in bits of gossip they came across.
Although there was no real recognition in the form of a byline, there was newsroom clout in getting something good.
My own work in this column helped get me promoted to senior culture reporter.
Charlotte, the up and coming writer, seeing the city’s favorite aristocratic son? That was perfect “Potins Culturels” column fodder. It was much better than the arts charity idea that Benoit Levin scooped me on. It could save my career.
When you work as a journalist, your livelihood depends on your sense for story.
It’s an ability, a curiosity, an inkling.
And the more you do the work, the sharper your senses become.
I hate to admit it, but my senses were lighting up like fireworks.
The vicomte’s son was a gossip column darling.
All the aristocrats were. A person like Antoine de Larminet couldn’t spend time with any woman in public without attracting attention.
Especially Charlotte, whose stories were popular and widely discussed.
I warned her once that people in the press were noticing.
And up until now, the association between her and de Larminet was loose.
Or at least as far as the press was concerned.
I refilled my coffee and then went up to my room, leaving Cook to the business of breakfast. I kept a stack of newspaper and magazine back issues in my room.
It came in handy when I was looking for ideas or pulling together background.
I put my coffee cup on my nightstand and went straight to my stack.
There had been the first mention of Charlotte and Antoine together several weeks ago.
I’d given that paper to Charlotte when I showed it to her.
But there had been more mentions since, and so I started flipping through my old papers and setting them aside.
In no time, I had several small mentions that, when grouped together, added up to a story.
Most were simple—Antoine de Larminet chatting with Charlotte Devereaux at this party, Antoine and Charlotte dancing together twice at this ball, that sort of thing.
Nothing with any real meat. But I had real meat.